Page 38 of The Chief
He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Seemed only fair since I made you squirt like a pornstar.”
Heat flushed my cheeks, my gaze darting to the wet patch about a foot wide and two long. Jesus. “You’re an arsehole.”
“Maybe, but that doesn’t change facts. You squirted all over my hand and face.” He wiped at the side of his cheek, then brought two fingers to his mouth, sliding them between his lips. He groaned, and my pussy throbbed in unison. It was the single most erotic thing I’d ever seen.
There was no point trying to deny it—the evidence was there—and I didn’t want to address the other accusation. That I was like a corpse sleeping in the bed beside him. He didn’t need to know I had never allowed a man to sleep beside me because it reminded me of my stepfather—Orla’s father—crawling into my bed at night.
Alarm flickered across his face when I slid from the bed, before his expression melted back to indifference. “Where are you going?”
I tugged the quilt from the bed and dumped my pillow on the floor. “I’m sleeping here,” I said, jabbing my finger toward the makeshift pallet I’d created.
He narrowed his eyes. “You’d rather sleep on a cold, hard, drafty floor than share a bed with me?”
I nodded jerkily. “Yes.”
After he studied me for a long moment, I thought he would kick up a stink and insist I stay in bed, but he only shrugged. Laying down, he dragged the other blanket up his body and rolled over. Then, with a closed-off tone, he said, “Suit yourself, Jynx.”
With nothing else to do, I settled onto the floor. The rug did absolutely nothing to stop the chill from the stones as it crept into my body and I shivered, pulling the quilt over my head, as I curled my body into the fetal position to conserve warmth. But I held to my decision, my breath leaving me in visible puffs of condensation. Though I seriously reconsidered climbing back into bed and curling my body around Keir’s, my pride was already wounded, and I wouldn’t allow myself to cling to any man for comfort like that again.
Shutting my eyes, I forced my body to relax, pacing my breaths, as I waited for sleep to claim me.
Someone was screaming. No, not someone. Orla.Orla was screaming. Screaming for help. Begging him to stop. She wants her mam. Where was our mother?
I stood in the hallway outside Orla’s bedroom, a baseball bat dangling from my fingers. Reaching for the handle, I pushed open the door and stepped inside. Orla was on her bed. My stepfather—herfather—was crouched beside her bed, his shoulders blocking his actions from my view. I knew, though. I knew he was touching her like he’d touched me.
Fuck, I was too late. I knew he’d come for her one day. I was getting too old for him—too combative. He preferred younger, more innocent victims, and that was Orla. Sweet, easy-going Orla. He’d already ruined my childhood. I wouldn’t allow him to do the same to her.
As I shut the door behind me, he whirled around, surprise written all over his ruddy face. I knew from experience his breath would reek of cheap gin and stale cigarettes. That he’d have dirt under his fingernails, as I always focused on thatwhen he touched me. I only had to hope I wasn’t too late. That he hadn’t violated Orla yet.
As he rose from the floor, I was relieved to see that my sister still had her underwear on. It meant I had got there in time. He liked to cut my underwear off, even though my mother would get upset that I kept ‘losing’ my knickers. She’d make a big deal about having to take on an extra john every night to pay for them, and the guilt ate at me.
As my eyes landed on his pocketknife, I knew that’s what he was about to do to Orla too.
To force Orla to go to our mother and say she’d lost her underwear, when in reality, her scumbag of a father was taking them and keeping them as a trophy. Or selling them online to other perverted men who got off on hoarding young girl’s used knickers.
“What are you doing here, Caitria?” he asked, stepping toward me. “You should be in bed.”
“So should you,” I replied. “With our mother.”
His slimy grin slipped into place. “I was just reading Orla a bedtime story. She woke up from a bad dream and couldn’t get back to sleep.”
In all the years I’d endured living with him, he had never once shown any fatherly tendencies, so this lie was really his admission. “You will leave her alone, Brian.”
“I told you to call me Da.”
The sharp shake of my head caused my dark hair to slap against my cheeks. “I’d rather call you the Devil.”
Brian glanced over his shoulder at Orla, who had pulled up her pajama bottoms and wrapped her arms around her knees. “Who said you could put your jammies back on?” he snapped. “Take them off. Now.”
“Leave them on, Orla,” I told her, speaking over him.
Her wide green eyes bounced between us, but she listened to me.
Brian turned back to me, his nostrils flaring. “You little bitch. You’ve turned my own daughter against me.”
“No, Brian. You did that all on your own.”
His muddy-brown gaze drifted down my body, and he readjusted his dick behind the fabric of his sweats. “Since you interrupted my fun, I guess you’ll have to be a substitute.”
